After Proust, there are certain things that simply cannot be done again. He marks off for you the boundaries of your talent.

No one ever has time to examine himself honestly, and most people look no further than their neighbors' eyes, in which they may see their own reflection.

I dreamt of being a writer once I started to read. I started to write 'Bonjour Tristesse' in bistros around the Sorbonne. I finished it, I sent it to editors. It was accepted.

I always believe things are going to work out.

It isn't common sense that is paramount in this world, it's wishful thinking.

A love affair based on jealousy is doomed from the start ... It is certanly a sign of love, but it's a sign that it's already dying.

My love of pleasure seems to be the only consistent side of my character. Is it because I have not read enough?